


A Not So Tall, Very Dark Stranger

by alittlenervous



Category: The Pacific (TV)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Slow Build, a lot of banter, eugene is a college dropout, snafu is a hitchhiker, the modern road trip sledgefu au literally no one asked for, they both need somebody to looooove
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-29
Updated: 2019-05-05
Packaged: 2020-02-09 15:56:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18641326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alittlenervous/pseuds/alittlenervous
Summary: Eugene Sledge is a college dropout, searching for some sense of who he is with no directions, literally and metaphorically. Snafu is the stranger he picks up along the way.





	1. Meeting

**Author's Note:**

> Y'ALL. I'm warning you this is about to be really rough because it's late where I am right now. I just needed to get this out of my system. Thank you to anyone who picks this up and reads it! I would love to hear your feedback to improve future chapters because I have absolutely no idea where this is going to go! I'm going to go to sleep now

It’s four in the morning when Eugene wakes up to a stranger rapping at his car window.

 

He about jumps out of his skin when he opens his eyes to see someone peering in to look at him like it’s too dark to make out who he is.

 

It _is_ too dark. It’s four in the morning.

 

Before Eugene can even bite out a, _please don’t do that_ , or a, _who the hell even are you_ , the stranger flaps his hand twice in a manner that can only mean that he wants him to roll down the window. And against Eugene’s better judgment as it is four in the morning and he is _tired_ , he does.

 

He’s already run through about fifty different scenarios that all somehow end with him paralyzed in an ice bath before the stranger opens his mouth to speak.

 

“Where you off to?” he asks, some kind of accent coloring his voice. Southern?

 

Eugene stares, dumbfounded. “I’m not sure I should tell you that.” Eugene goes to roll up the window and watches the stranger’s face fall as he does. _Tough luck_ , he thinks. _Coming up to absolute strangers at rest stops at four in the morning._

 

Ridiculous.

 

But then the guy sticks his hand in the car before the window can roll all the way up and grins at Eugene while he does. Like he was expecting this to happen, or like he’s used to this happening and knows exactly how to make his victims want to shit their pants.

 

What the _fuck_.

 

“What do you want?” Eugene has to fight the rising panic in all parts of his body to not scream or pass out. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed the state of my car, but I don’t have any money I can give you.” The guy obviously notices that he’s freaking out, and for some weird reason, his grin grows even wider. He rests an elbow on the roof of the car while the other hangs from his pocket, looking, for all he’s worth, like the poster child for unbothered confidence.

 

“Not lookin’ for money, cher.” Eugene’s eyes drift downwards to his tight-ish jeans and the worn white t-shirt that hangs loosely off his thin shoulders. He usually isn’t one to assume, but -

 

“I don’t want your… services, either.”

 

The stranger has the decency to look taken aback before doubling over laughing. He smacks the roof of Eugene’s car four times.

 

He wipes his eyes with the back of his hand (an overreaction if Eugene says so himself) and tells him, “I ain’t here to get you off. Though there wouldn’t be nothin’ wrong with that.” He stops laughing at Eugene’s expense long enough to notice the look on his face. “What? S’one way to make money. I’m guessing you don’t have the room to judge, ‘specially when you’re hauling around this piece of junk.” He waves his hand at the general outline of Eugene’s station wagon.

 

Eugene bristles. It’s one thing for him to make fun of his own car because it’s _his_ car. This absolute asshat of a stranger has no right to insult him, his car, and keep him awake at a rest stop at four in the morning.

 

The stranger can see that he’s pushed a button. Eugene can tell he’s the kind of guy that would keep pushing if given the opportunity. “I’m askin’ to see if you’ll give me a ride.”

 

Now it’s Eugene’s turn to be surprised. “You don’t even know where I’m going. Why would you trust me to take you somewhere?”

 

He laughs like Eugene’s question isn’t important enough to be answering. “Ain’t in the position to pick and choose who I get my rides from.”

 

Eugene’s fumbling now, looking for excuses to give this man for why he can’t take him, other than the perfectly valid option of stepping on the gas pedal and trying to get some rest at a different rest stop on the next state over. “Isn’t that, um. Illegal?”

 

“Not if you ain’t a little bitch about it.” The stranger gives him a pointed look. “You gonna call the cops on me, boo?”

 

He absolutely _could_. This guy has given him no reason not to.

 

The stranger must notice that in his expression. “How ‘bout you come inside the diner? I’ll treat you to a meal.” He flashes a smile that’s more teeth than warmth. “Let you know I’m legit.” The diner he’s referring to sports a flickering neon sign that proudly declares to passerby that,  _Bil y’s is Op n f r Busi ess_.

 

Eugene isn’t sure how the meal will let him get to know anything about this person and his apparent legit-ness, besides the fact that he probably has some money. For all he knows, it could be stolen.

 

But his sleep-addled brain gets the best of him, yet again, and he gets out of the car.

 

He tries to justify his actions on the way to the diner. At least he’ll get a free meal out of it. At least the diner seems well lit and well staffed enough so that Eugene knows there’ll be witnesses to his untimely death should the stranger choose to kill him and then cannibalize his body.

 

Eugene slides into a booth, the red material worn down to a faded pink. He winces, trying not to think about the other people that have sat here and the sweat that probably aided in washing away the color.

 

The man situates himself in the booth across him, flags down a waiter with dark undereyes, and orders two milkshakes, two cheeseburgers, and a large plate of fries. “Hope you’re a fan of fine dining.” The stranger puts an elbow up on the table and rests his chin in his hand. “What’d you say your name was again?”

 

“I didn’t.” Eugene busies himself with a sugar packet and rips off the corners, ignoring when he tears a little too deep and some of the sugar spills onto the table. “Eugene Sledge.”

 

“Well. Hope you’re a fan of fine dining, Eugene.” He drags out the ‘e’ in his name, almost like he’s teasing him with it.

 

Eugene sits, waiting for him to offer his own name, eyes narrowing when he realizes it isn’t going to happen unprompted. “Wait. You can’t just ask me for my name and not give me yours. I’m the one potentially giving you a ride here. Don’t think you should give me the same courtesy?”

 

The man raises his eyebrows. “They call me Snafu.” Eugene’s about to ask who _they_ are, or what the hell kind of name Snafu is (Is it Polish?), but the waiter comes back with their food before he can.

 

‘Snafu’ digs into the fries before they hit the table. Eugene would cringe or tell him to stop eating so fast, but he’s sure his own actions mirror Snafu's. He hadn’t realized how hungry he was.

 

After a few minutes of nothing but staring down at his plate and shoveling the food on it into his mouth, Eugene is full enough to attempt some conversation. With food in his system and the sugar in the milkshake to wake him up, he feels a little more awake. Less prone to doing stupid things. More alert to intercept any red flags.

 

“Where are you from?” Eugene perforates little holes in a lone fry on his plate with his fork. Snafu mixes the whipped cream at the top of his milkshake into the drink. “New Orleans. You?”

 

“Mobile, Alabama. I see you’ve come around to the whole ‘ask someone the same thing you’re asked’ thing,” Eugene comments dryly.

 

“What can I say? I’m a fast learner.”

 

“If you’re looking to get a ride from me, you’re not making the best case for yourself.”

 

“Just lookin’ to get a ride anywhere.”

 

“Anywhere? You’re really fine with anywhere?”

 

“Anywhere you’re goin’ is good.”

 

Eugene doesn’t know what to make of those highly suspicious, red-flag worthy responses. What episode of any crime show _didn’t_ start with a suspect giving vague answers to questions asked?

 

He stops himself when he realizes he sounds like his parents. Always worried about him, suffocating him with those looks to check if he’s okay after what happened. Trying to shield him from everything, even though he’d seen it all. Trying to get him to piece his life back together and return to some sense of normalcy, even when it was clear he wasn't ready for any of their 'help'.

 

Wasn't that the reason he'd dropped out in the first place?

 

Why _not_ give this possibly dangerous stranger a ride to where he’s going, even if he’s not sure himself where he’ll end up? What could go wrong? The food must not have done anything to interfere with the part of Eugene’s brain that makes terrible decisions because he finds himself agreeing to take Snafu with him.

 

“Okay.” Snafu looks surprised for someone who seems so irritatingly sure of himself. “Yeah?”

 

Eugene nods and finishes off the rest of his milkshake. Snafu picks up the bill as promised, leaving a hefty tip for the waiter who appreciates it enough to not roll his eyes too hard at the little mound of sugar Eugene spilled earlier. They make their way out to the station wagon. Snafu takes up the backseat and leaves the front to Eugene, a gesture he appreciates. Eugene’s first impulse when Snafu gets in is to ask him if he has anything he’d like to load in the trunk, but the only things he has on him are a lighter and a pack of cigarettes produced from the back pocket of his jeans. Eugene drives to the exit of the rest stop that leads them out onto the highway.

 

It’s bumpy, neglect leading to potholes springing up in places where unsuspecting newcomers least expect them.

 

“You smoke?” Eugene asks, glancing in the rearview mirror. He watches the little flickers from Snafu’s lighter illuminate his face in short bursts. “Tryna quit,” he grits out, struggling to keep a cigarette still in between his teeth. It’d be a miracle if he can get anything lit in the car right now, what with the age of the station wagon warring with the bad conditions of the road.

 

But the soft exhale behind him followed by the familiar smell of smoke tells him he’s found a way.

 

Eugene’s grip tightens on the wheel. “Well, can you ‘tryna quit’ a little harder? Or at least do it out the window? You’re stinking up my car.”

 

Snafu lets out a quiet laugh, but lets down the window and dangles the hand holding his cigarette out the side.

 

The cool night breeze blows through the car as Eugene squints at the road ahead in search of a motel where he can catch up on his interrupted sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 2000 words of Snafu and Eugene arguing over a lot of things and getting to know each other a little better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't even listen to the Rolling Stones or the Smiths

Eugene’s eyes start to droop before he’s driven twenty minutes from the rest stop. Snafu seems to have made himself at home in the back with his feet kicked up by the open window and an arm thrown over his eyes. His breathing is soft and catches a little from time to time. The little snorts make him sound very much like a pony with nasal issues. 

 

The constant breathing from the back is enough to lull Eugene into a state of wanting to pull over and collapse over the steering wheel. They’re driving down some road next to a huge expanse of corn field. Eugene slows the car and parks next to it. 

 

He leans his seat back, careful not to disturb Snafu, and closes his eyes. 

 

- + -

 

_ There’s a sound insistent in his ear, high-pitched and painful to listen to. He palms at his forehead, at his temples in an attempt to make it stop. _

 

_ It takes him a while to realize that he’s lying on the ground. He glances over to see Bill sprawled out next to him. Something wet pools by his shoulder.  _

 

_ His blood or Bill’s? _

 

_ He doesn’t know what to do.  _

 

_ Footsteps sound somewhere far off and get closer. An alarm goes off in his head and tells him that something isn’t right. Where is he? Whose footsteps are those? _

 

_ Oh god, is Bill breathing?  _

 

He doesn’t know what to do. 

 

- + -

 

Eugene wakes with a start, a choking noise halfway out of his throat before he claps a hand over his mouth. He forces himself down into the worn leather of the seat, breaths coming hard and fast as he tries to force all the air out of his lungs. He wills his heart rate to slow and the pounding in his head to stop.

 

A quick look in the rearview mirror reveals a bewildered Snafu woken up by Eugene’s sudden movements. It’s been a while since the nightmare has come back. He chalks it up to being in a new surrounding. A new person  _ in _ his surroundings. 

 

But Eugene takes Snafu’s presence as a good sign. If it’d been really bad, he’s sure Snafu would’ve cleared the cornfield and been on his way to some other rest stop to terrorize the next driver he saw. 

 

It can’t have been that bad.

 

_ Well, that’s progress _ , he thinks wryly. 

 

And if there’s any sign that he was weirded out by Eugene’s behavior, he’s tactful enough not to show it. Snafu shifts in his seat. “Was expecting some kinda luxury hotel,” he drawls. “Instead we’ve got this Children of the Corn type situation. Coulda sworn I saw that scarecrow move last night.”

 

Eugene cranes his neck to face Snafu. “Too tired last night to find a motel. Sorry.” 

 

“No worries. I’ve slept in worse.” Snafu leans back into a full body stretch, foot knocking into the window. “So, where to now?” 

 

“Well, since we didn’t get to a motel last night and we aren’t anywhere with running water right now, a rest stop. For hygiene purposes.” 

 

Snafu snorts. “If you say so.” 

 

“I do say so. It’s an unspoken rule when you’re on the road all the time and sitting in your own sweat and stuff. I’m guessing you don’t have a toothbrush, so I’ll spot you.”

 

“Wow. Thank you  _ so _ much.”  Snafu's sarcasm grates on Eugene's nerves .

 

“Let’s not forget that  _ I’m _ the one giving  _ you _ a ride. Now I’m offering to buy you a toothbrush. A little gratitude would be nice.” 

 

“What does ‘thank you so much’ mean where you come from, Eugene?” Snafu shoots a grin at Eugene’s reflection in the rearview mirror and leans back with his hands behind his head like he knows he’s won the argument, or whatever one would call the interaction they’d just had. 

 

There had been nothing to  _ win _ in the first place. So far, Snafu has proven to be a combative, sarcastic asshat. And Eugene knows he would be totally justified in making him gather his meager possessions and kicking him out onto the highway. Amidst incoming traffic.

 

But he wouldn’t. Snafu probably had him pegged him as the type to tolerate this type of fuckery the moment he laid eyes on him sleeping in his car. Was it the red hair? His lankiness? The poorly-masked insecurity rolling off of him in waves?

 

Eugene watches Snafu fiddle with his lighter and scratch at the little decal at its base. While he’s been agonizing about being an easy target, Snafu probably hasn’t even noticed. 

 

Eugene starts up the car and heads to the nearest rest stop. 

 

They pull up to a modern looking rest stop that’s significantly better than the last one. From the front, Eugene sees that there’s some kind of gift shop, a Starbucks, and a variety of fast food chains inside. 

 

“There’s a Starbucks here if that’s the kind of thing you’re into,” Eugene says, backing into a parking space. 

 

“Mmm, not really in my budget. How does McDonald’s sound?” 

 

“Wait, you’re paying?” Eugene doesn’t try hard enough to mask the surprise in his voice, and Snafu scowls. 

 

“Can’t have you pay for everything, now can I? Wouldn’t want to disappoint my mama with the type of gentleman I turned out to be.”

 

Eugene bites back a comment along the lines of,  _ if your mother saw you now, she probably wouldn’t be very happy, _ and purchases two toothbrushes at the convenience store, one red and one blue. He wrangles Snafu into the bathroom where he takes a piss while Eugene scrubs at his teeth. The cheap travel size toothpaste that comes with the toothbrushes leaves a gritty feeling in his mouth. It’s better than the unwashed morning breath he’d been sporting before, so he doesn’t complain. He stays after to make sure that Snafu brushes his teeth too.

 

“I’m not letting you back into that car without brushing your teeth. We haven’t even showered and it’s been a day. This is the least you could do until we find a motel.”

 

“Was gonna brush my teeth, but you keep interrupting me.” 

 

Eugene has never heard of people not being able to brush their teeth without absolute silence but is also pretty sure that he should stay and make sure that Snafu brushes well. So he stands his ground and ignores the brooding, frustrated looks that Snafu sends his way.

 

When he finally finishes and spits into the sink dramatically before rinsing, they walk over to a table. True to his word, Snafu offers to buy anything Eugene wants from the McDonald’s menu.  He returns back to the table with two egg McMuffins and two large coffees. 

 

They eat in silence. Eugene would worry about how quiet Snafu is being, but is just glad that he doesn’t ask questions about his nightmare. But the quiet stretches into five long minutes and Eugene feels the need to fill it with  _ something _ .

 

“So. You’re from New Orleans, right? How was that? Growing up, I mean.”  _ Very articulate, Eugene,  _ he thinks to himself.

 

Snafu peers at him over his McMuffin. “It was good, if that’s what you’re askin’. Don’t got no crazy Mardi Gras stories, or whatever you people who ain’t from New Orleans expect us to tell you.”

 

“Just… trying to make conversation.” They lapse into another silence that’s just awkward on Eugene’s part, and righteous and deserved on Snafu’s. Eugene doesn’t know how he does it. How he makes other people feel like he’s winning when, again, there’s absolutely nothing to win. 

 

“Ooh, there  _ was _ this one time the neighborhood boys dared me to eat a King cake all on my own. Threw up a little after, and ma went after my ass with the Swiffer once she’d found the colored sugar down my front, but it was worth it.” A proud grin grows on his face and Eugene can’t stifle the laugh building in his throat. Snafu doesn’t let it go unnoticed.

 

“Don’t think I can tell you all that and not expect a childhood story from you, Eugene. What’d you get up to down in Mo- _ beel _ ?” 

 

Eugene thinks for a second. “My buddy Sid and I would go down to the streams. Catch fish and shit during the summertime.”

 

Snafu purses his lips. “How  _ boring _ . You really ain’t had nothing better happen? No wild parties?”

 

Eugene rolls his eyes. “Yeah, okay, it sounds boring. To tell you the truth, it was boring a lot of the time. But my dad was the town doctor. I couldn’t be out there, you know, sullying the family name.” 

 

“Son of the town doctor? You well-off then?”

 

Eugene chokes on his coffee. He remembers Snafu and how he can probably count the number his belongings on one hand. Is it normal for people to be so… so forward? But, then again, Snafu isn’t normal and Eugene is having a hard time believing he’s human. So maybe he should have been expecting questions that people wouldn’t usually ask. Besides, it’s not like he’s insecure about his considerable wealth. There’s no reason for him to feel guilty about any of this stuff.

 

And that’s what he tells himself as he takes in Snafu’s expression and steels himself for a verbal smackdown.

 

“Yeah. I guess you could say that.”

 

A pause.

 

And then Snafu nods. 

 

Okay, weird. But it’s not an insult or any kind of verbal admonishment for his family’s money, and Eugene will take what he can at this point.

 

Snafu balls up the wrapper for his McMuffin and picks up his empty coffee cup. He throws them into the trash and Eugene follows suit. 

 

They make their way to the exit of the rest stop, but Snafu stops to look at something in the gift store window. Eugene looks quizzically at Snafu and follows his line of sight to one of those tacky state-themed sweatshirts.

 

A light pink  _ Virginia is for Lovers _ sweatshirt hangs from an obnoxiously bedazzled coat hanger.

 

He’s always hated that slogan. What the fuck does it even mean? Eugene gives a worried glance to Snafu that he wholeheartedly ignores before marching into the store and thrusting twenty dollars and the sweatshirt in a size large to the woman sitting behind the cash register.

 

“Got a daughter or something?” The woman looks at Snafu suspiciously while counting his change.

 

“Nope.” Snafu beams at her and accepts the plastic bag she hands to him. The woman’s expression doesn’t change and Eugene gives her a weak smile before following Snafu out of the store.

 

“Happy with your purchase?” Eugene unlocks the car door and watches as Snafu pulls the sweatshirt over himself. 

 

“You fuckin’ bet I am. It’s cold in the northern part of the south, especially this time of the year. This should be enough until we get to wherever the hell we’re goin’.” 

 

Eugene really hopes Snafu doesn’t stick to that and makes a mental note to take him to a department store and get him a proper jacket. 

 

The first couple of miles back on the road, it’s quiet. 

 

Too quiet.

 

When Eugene gets the opportunity to stop the car, he plugs his phone into the portable speaker Sid got him for his birthday and selects a playlist. The opening strains of  _ Shangri-La _ flood the car. He hears Snafu scoff. 

 

“Shoulda known you’d be into that Beatles-wannabe shit.”

 

Eugene’s blood runs cold. 

 

It’s one thing to make him feel uncomfortable and straight up hijack his car. To insult Jeff Lynne? A multi-talented, multi-instrumentalist, music-mixing legend? 

 

How  _ disrespectful _ .

 

Eugene draws the line there. There’s no way he can turn around to yell at Snafu for disrespecting Jeff, so he goes for the second best option: shitting on Snafu’s taste in music. 

 

“What the fuck do you listen to then?” He snarls, trying to keep his eyes on the road. “The goddamned Smiths? The Rolling Stones?” 

 

“Yeah, ‘cause my taste in music isn’t absolute shit.” 

 

Electric Light Orchestra? Absolute shit? Eugene feels the beginnings of a tension headache forming around his skull in a tight band. What an utter asshole. A colossal bitch.

 

“What was that movie they made? With that girl from  _ Grease _ ? Xanadu?” Eugene fights the urge to look at the rearview mirror where he knows he’ll see Snafu’s triumphant smirk. He practically launches his phone and the speaker to the backseat where they miss Snafu by a few inches. 

 

“Put on your fucking music, then,” Eugene seethes. He rolls down the window partly to help with his headache and mostly so he doesn’t have to hear  _ Heaven Knows I’m Miserable Now _ , which will most likely send him into an uncharacteristic rage that will end with Snafu being kicked out onto the highway at top speed.

 

He’s surprised when it’s not the Rolling Stones or the Smiths that play. It’s something softer. 

 

“Muse?” Eugene asks, confused. He'd spent all that energy building up his anger, and for what? It doesn't have anywhere to go anymore.

 

Snafu messes with the volume buttons on the speaker. “Yeah. Soldier’s Poem. Heard it before?”

 

“I think my dad played it a couple of times when I was a kid.” Eugene’s grip on the steering wheel loosens.

 

“Real good for relaxin’. Especially after blowin’ up just because someone says they don’t like some band,” Snafu says, no real weight to his words. It’s light, almost. Teasing. 

 

“Whatever,” he tosses back. So, maybe Snafu isn’t all that bad. At least they can come to some sort of compromise with their music taste. 

 

It’s quiet again, but better this time. Less strained than it was before. 

 

But the anxious part of Eugene can’t help but wonder how much Snafu had seen of his physical reaction to his nightmare. If that’s what’s leading to this nice-ish behavior, even though he’s acted how he normally would (from what Eugene’s observed) the entire day. He tries to put the intrusive thoughts out of his head. 

 

It’s cloudy outside in a way that suggests that there’ll be rain later. It reminds him of that day, how it had started raining as soon as the police arrived. A strange feeling fills his chest as Matt Bellamy croons to him. Flashes of his nightmare, of leaving his family, of Snafu sitting in the back of his car, of not knowing where to go next. Having all those choices laid out in front of him. The independence that that brings him. 

 

_ Do you think you deserve your freedom? _

 

Does he?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Say what you will but Eugene is definitely the type to listen to Electric Light Orchestra.
> 
> The second to last line is from the Muse song Soldier's poem!

**Author's Note:**

> Whoo chile. You've made it. 
> 
> Any comments would be greatly appreciated!


End file.
